


Don't worry, I'll call you

by SunshineSea



Category: The Outer Worlds (Video Game)
Genre: Bedford is a bottom and nothing can tell me otherwise, Blowjobs, M/M, One-sided pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, a true pioneer, i am the first in this tag, things romance novels don't teach you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:54:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21674824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunshineSea/pseuds/SunshineSea
Summary: It’s hot and damp and that’s how far the English language serves him.
Relationships: Alex Hawthorne/Udom Bedford
Comments: 12
Kudos: 82





	Don't worry, I'll call you

The first time Udom meets Captain Alex Hawthorne, he wants to strap him to that chair and interrogate him until his mouth bleeds. He wants to run upstairs and grab the work-journal he keeps, he wants to _write_ , he wants to put down the unwashed details of Captain Hawthorne’s face with such clarity and poetic flair that even the most dim-witted reader would be able to feel the sheer radiance of him through the pages. He wants to crawl into Hawthorne’s lap.

It’s entirely too much.

He fears he does not make the best impression on the man in-person. The captain answers every question about his adventures with amicable ambiguity, and he keeps pulling the subject back to his ship. It’s impounded for reasons that seem suddenly unimportant to Udom, but which are also his only bargaining chip. He might not be able to strap Hawthorne to the chair (he looks too strong, he’d fight it, it’d be a rough tumble and Udom would end up sprawled on the floor, on his back, legs falling open-) but he _is_ able to keep the spacer grounded. Closer. He offers the captain a glass of water, which he accepts with concealed irritation.

The captain has broad, scarred hands. Broad, scarred fingers. Wide knuckles.   
He rests them on the desk when he leans forward. He puts them on the armrest when he leans back. Runs them through his hair in a motion both tired and practiced.  
The captain curls one of those hands around his glass, and his exposed throat works when he drinks, prominent Adams apple bouncing with each contraction.

It’s entirely too much.

He’s barely listening when Hawthorne mentions Phineas Welles. “Don’t know where he is _,”_ he says, voice gruff but siren-like all the same, “but I can find out. Can’t do much while I’m stuck here, though.”  
It’s an invitation if Udom’s ever heard one (he hasn’t) and he grabs it without thinking; information about Welles against The Unreliable’s freedom, and drinks.  
“And drinks?” _  
_And drinks. Udom will be paying.  
The captain mulls that one over for a second (broad hands braiding, fingers playing over each other, over and under like- like _\- thick worms_ , except no, he can’t write that, the language is too unrefined, readers will be disgusted. fingers playing over each other like- writhing, coiling- like lovers, like-)

Hawthorne answers and Udom doesn’t catch it, so he has to assume he said yes. He gives the captain a winning smile (barely shaking) and says he’ll see him in the evening (barely cracking), and that’s that on that.

Once the captain has left, Udom excuses himself to his room for a minute. He writes a page of notes for the novel he just _has_ to write now and jacks off so fast it hurts. Company time and all that.

He never goes out into the Groundbreaker if he can help it, so drinks happen in the office specifically reserved for a chairman that won’t visit. Hawthorne is an hour late and already inebriated. Udom forgives him.

Through the ply of drink he coaxes stories out of his rugged companion; stories that are, in every way possible, either fiction or criminal evidence, and which Udom lap up like warm water. Hawthorne tells him about blazing fights that he barely wins, about his wits and silver tongue coaxing secrets out of government officials, about his (law help him) sexual conquests spanning an entire universe. Udom can’t take notes but he drinks every word with such ferocity that, surely, he _must_ remember when he gets back to bed. How could he forget anything his Hawthorne tells him?  
 _His_ Hawthorne. He can’t keep him for long but he knows the captain will return. He must.

“Here’s a- Uh, well, _I_ didn’t do this. Was told to me by a friend.” Hawthorne says, just slightly slurring. He’s leaning back on the cream-colored couch with no regard to his space-filth getting on the upholstery. Part of Udom wants to be irritated; part of him is delighted that there will be something left after the captain goes.

“Go on.”

“Got this shipment from the Vale- he did, that is, not me- and got paid quite a bit to get it to Roseway. Now, I know that’s illegal but the bits were just too good-“

“ _You_ know?”

“No, no not me, no way. Law-abiding citizen number one over here. My _friend_ knew that’s illegal, but the bits were too good, so he does it. Thing is, picked up a distress call on the way. Some sucker got hit by debris on her way to Edgewater and her ship wouldn’t move. So obviously, being the ridiculously gallant man I am, I-“

“You?”

“No! No, hey- hey buddy. Hey. Attention, please. My _friend_ being the ridiculously gallant man I am decides to get over there even if it’s out of the way, out of the kindness of his heart. Uh, speaking of kindness, my good man, I gotta- I gotta repay you for un-pounding The Unreliable. I’m basically just leaving on a promise, here. Kind of like the promise that stranded captain gave me when I not only rescued her from pirates but also fixed her ship in the process. What do you want? Name anything.”

“You.”

It honestly is just Udom trying to catch up with the conversation. He’s a bottle of Zero Gee in, and there has been a lot of first-person pronoun switching. Mistakes happen. Honestly.  
But the captain pounds the rest of his glass and slams it down on the delicate table with a _bang_ , looks him in the eyes with the expression of someone steeling themselves, and says with that voice that is just like (and nothing like) a siren;

“I ain’t above that.”

Then he’s on him.

Udom is not an experienced lover. He’s written enough romance novels to fill a room and read even more, but none of them have prepared him for the sheer physicality of having captain Hawthorne’s hands on him.   
He’s pushed back into the armrest of the couch, hard, the back of his head knocks against wood and then there’s weight on him- weight and warmth, exhilarating heat, oppressive on his chest and stomach as Hawthorne lays on him, between his legs- and kisses are supposed to be something soft in passion, but when Hawthorne kisses him his lips are chapped and their teeth clatter against each other and there’s no time to process any of it before there’s another’s tongue in his mouth.

He tries to gasp. There’s no room. And there’s hands- just- too many hands, too many hands for a normal person to have. Udom only has two but Hawthorne has at least ten and they are all wide-knuckled and scarred and rough in the folds of his shirt. Udom grabs hold of the captain’s shirt with the half-formed intention of pushing him off. He ends up pulling him closer.

When he finally gets to breathe again he does so hungrily. Gasping. He expects to find Hawthorne’s eyes brimming with passion like the handsome rogues in the stories, but instead there is something cold. Cold and slightly irritated.

“Don’t give me that,” he growls, before pushing his face into Udom’s neck. He yelps when he feels teeth; then it warps into the wet warmth of yet another kiss, this one harder. Strong enough to leave a mark.

“You think you’re the first customs officer I’ve sucked off? You think I didn’t notice how you looked at me?”

Udom’s head is spinning with drink and affection. The first coherent thought that comes to him is the realization that Hawthorne _noticed him,_ quickly followed by horror that Hawthorne thinks him a mere scoundrel, abusing his position for sexual favours, but then there is another thought. Something dark and slimy in the pit of his chest. A voice saying that _maybe he is._ Maybe that is why he set up this meeting. Maybe having that power wouldn’t be a bad thing. Maybe…

He yelps again as Hawthorne bites into his collarbone, and all thoughts of power dynamics blow out of his head.

“That- that is not-“ he begins, squirming. Hawthorne’s many hands have found their way to the hem of Udom’s pants and the situation suddenly feels like an emergency.

“Isn’t it?”

The captain scoots down until his face is on Udom’s midriff, chin digging painfully into his ribs. The two hands that Udom can see are both resting on his zipper. A noticeable bulge presses up just below them. He’s only human, after all.

“N-no, I- I mean, I didn’t- I didn’t _plan_ on-“

“Oh, but now that it’s happening you’re not going to complain?”

Udom bites his lip. Hawthorne laughs. It’s low and breathy and it heats the oppressive fabric covering Udom’s torso.

“Figured. At least you’re not a mean one. Lean back, chief; consider it a workplace benefit.”

Well.

There’s not much to argue about there.

He tries to lean back and succeeds for exactly two seconds, before the sound of his own zipper jerks him back up. He makes a noise that is definitely not a squeak when Hawthorne pushes a thumb over the tent in his board-issued underwear, and that makes the captain chuckle, the previous chill of his eyes now melting into something amused.

“What’s the matter, Bedford? Never had a handsome man on your junk before?”

“Alex-“

Oh, he’s so _crude._ That’s part of the appeal. Hawthorne grabs the hem of his underwear with his teeth, obscenely, and pulls until Udom’s cock springs free, equally so. This is happening. This is actually happening. In his novels this moment is usually slow, sensual and completely glossed over, and they never say _what to do with your hands._ What the fuck is he supposed to do with his-

“Alex!”

It just comes out of him, quick and desperate, as fingers that are not his own close around his dick for the first time in years. Hawthorne laughs again and Udom has the distinct impression that he should be embarrassed, but it’s like there’s not enough room for more than one emotion in his head right now, and that space is thoroughly occupied by arousal. He finally solves the hand-placement issue by reaching out and touching the captain’s hair. It’s just as silky smooth between his fingers as he imagined it to be.

 _“Relax,”_ Hawthorne says, tilting his head into the touch like a dog looking for scratches. He starts stroking him with slow, deliberate, surprisingly gentle movements; nothing like Udom does it himself, but a thousand times better just because it’s someone else. Udom swallows and tries to follow the advice.

Fuck, he’s so _warm._ The temperature in the supposedly air-conned office must have spiked by a hundred degrees in the past ten minutes. His face is burning all the way down to his chest, seeping through the weaves of his rumpled clothes, and Hawthorne isn’t helping at all with that face; that look; stuck somewhere between mirth, inebriation and predatory intent, and while it’s nothing like the manner of the romantic leads in his novels, it’s going to be from now on.   
He’s going to write a book for this man. An entire volume dedicated only to the deftness of his fingers. Another for the crook of his smile. He’s going to write volumes and volumes and Hawthorne is going to be in all of them, and he’s always going to look _just like that_ , with his hair dishevelled and his eyes twinkling and his tongue out-

_Oh._

Hawthorne laps out, flicking the tip of his member with his tongue, and Udom pulls in a breath that he can’t let go of. _That’s_ how that feels like. He’s been writing it all wrong.

It’s hot and damp and that’s how far the English language serves him. Hawthorne is gentle when he wraps his chapped lips around him, even when he twitches and hits his teeth, but it still feels- fuck, there aren’t _words_ for this, are there? There can’t be. He might be overreacting. He might, embarrassingly, already be close to unwinding.   
He tries to communicate this but all that rides his forced exhale out is a muttered _“Alex”_ and that doesn’t help, it doesn’t help at all. He takes hold of some of Hawthorne’s hair (gently, he hopes) in an effort to ground himself, but the captain takes it as encouragement and moves further; bobbing, now, making suction sounds, dragging his lips down half the length of the shaft before coming up again, tongue moving possessed-like in circles that seem engineered to dismantle _him,_ specifically.  
It’s too much. It’s entirely too much. He manages to stand perhaps another minute of it before he has to speak up.

“Alex- A-alex, I can’t-“ he sputters, a familiar feeling blooming in his belly. Hawthorne pulls off with a _pop_ of his hollowed cheeks.

“Already?”

If he could blush harder, he would. Instead he just groans as Hawthorne starts jacking him off, quicker than he did before, helped by the generous spit-shine he’s been giving.   
“Alright, then,” the captain says. He has the devious habit of rubbing the pad of his thumb across the cockhead every time his hand goes up. Udom has to remember that for personal purposes.

The captain puts his free hand under Udom’s shirt and pushes it up, exposing his stomach. Udom has no time to wonder about it before his brain goes into static.

(he soars)

(stars)

(flying)

(the rings of all planets, interwoven and locked and yet so far apart)

(he’s enlightened)

(he’s inspired)

(he’s in love)

… And then the overwhelming sensations makes his head jerk back and knocks him hard into the wooden armrest behind him, and any coital contemplating about the nature of existence is covered by searing pain. He gasps and hisses and can hear Hawthorne exclaim (muffled, like from another room): “ _Oh, fuck!”_

Udom regains his composure and finds himself partially embarrassed, partially in pain, and drenched in an overall feeling of satisfaction. He puts a hand to the back of his head and feels the tell-tale heat of an oncoming bump. Great.  
When he looks down he also sees that the sparse trail of hair leading down from his belly button has acted as a landing strip for his own cum. _Great._  
And to top it all off in a neat, shameful little bow, Hawthorne is looking at him from between his thighs with an expression of half-concern, half-hilarity, and just a pinch of pride to tie it together, so that’s absolutely _marvellous_. He finally gets to be ravaged by a rugged space-captain travelling through port and he goes and makes an absolute fool of himself.

“Are you okay?” Hawthorne asks, clearly struggling not to laugh. Udom swallows what remains of his pride and nods.

“Got carried away, huh? Happens to the best of us. Especially when I’m involved.”

Pride now taking the front seat, Hawthorne sits up and stretches his back, leaving Udom to pant and revel in his own juices. His romance novels never address the clean-up involved with sex, either. Udom is starting to suspect most of them might be hogwash.  
Hawthorne is nice enough to get him a hankerchief, though. Udom turns his nose up at it (it’s oil-stained and stiff and clearly going back into the pocket it came from after this) but still accepts, and even gets himself looking somewhat decent by the time the captain stands up.

“Right, then,” he says, “transaction complete! Or, at least until I get you Welles, right? Thanks for the drink. I needed that.”

Udom stands as well. It’s an internal battle not to reach out and grab Hawthorne by the sleeve, ask him ( _beg him_ ) to stay, if only for the inspiration he provides- and Hawthorne can clearly tell, because he takes two big steps towards the door before he turns around again. He exits, but when he looks back through the doorway his smile looks sincere.

“Hey, don’t worry! I’m a man of my word! You’ll see me soon!”

“How do I contact you?” Udom says desperately.

“Don’t worry about it!” the captain calls from the other room. He waves a hand into the now-shutting door.  
“I’ll call you!”

And then he’s gone.


End file.
